


Fight Me?

by Bibanana



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, And Sally/Irene works too, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Based off of a headcanon, Bisexual John Watson, But don’t get too hung up on that it’s a Johnlock fic, Honestly I ship Molly/Irene but for the sake of the plot I’m using this, I know nothing about cancer, If I'm any good you'll probably cry, Implied Mystrade, Implied Sally/Irene, John Watson has a sexuality crisis, John Watson is a Good Doctor, John is our bi baddie, Johnlock Fluff, Johnlock centric, Lung Cancer, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Sherlock is a Bad Patient, Sick!Sherlock, Sloooow burn, Slow Burn, Strangers to Friends, Strangers to Lovers, Why am I explaining this in the tags, two years long
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:59:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23251318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibanana/pseuds/Bibanana
Summary: AU in which John became a doctor again after he got back from Afghanistan. Mike doesn't ever introduce them so John stays in his sad little flat and Sherlock moves into 221B alone. Mrs. Hudson knows it's time to intervene when Sherlock's lungs can't take the smoking any longer. Unfortunately, it takes lung cancer to introduce Sherlock to John and to the future they'll never have.
Relationships: Irene Adler/Sally Donovan, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 11
Kudos: 19





	1. "You're not my first crackhead, Sherlock Holmes!"

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know anything about cancer or lung cancer or being a doctor.  
> This is based off of THIS headcanon.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door of the flat to find Sherlock, doubled over in the midst of a coughing fit.

“Good… morning, Mrs. Hudson.” He wheezed, straightening himself.

Mrs. Hudson hurried into the kitchen. “Oh, dear, I could hear you from downstairs! Let me make you a cuppa.” She got out the kettle and lit the stove.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “That would be lovely. Perhaps some biscuits, as well?” His voice was rough and weary.

She rummaged the cabinets for teabags. “Only because you're ill. I’m not your housekeeper!”

Sherlock sat down in his armchair and closed his eyes. He never needed much sleep, but he was getting less than ever, as of late. Once he finally did end up sleeping, he would be woken, an hour later, by a bout of coughs. After that, finding sleep again was a lost cause.

Mrs. Hudson poured the tea and brought it over. “I added some extra honey.” She said with a wink.

“It’s all that smoking, I’m telling you.” She sighed, as she piled biscuits onto a small tray.

Sherlock ignored her, lifting the steaming teacup to his lips. He took a small sip. The hot tea burned his already sore throat. He grimaced as he swallowed it back.

Mrs. Hudson saw his face and pouted. “Have you seen a doctor yet? It really is a nasty cough.”

Sherlock, rolling his eyes, set down the tea, and decided to try his luck at a biscuit. It didn’t hurt as badly to swallow, but the crumbs brought on some more coughs. He waited until he was done hacking to speak.

“I have done my own research,” He said, a little breathlessly. “and know the appropriate measures to take.”

Mrs. Hudson eyed him suspiciously. She had known him long enough to know that he  _ never _ took ‘appropriate measures’ when it came to his own health. But she also knew that it wasn’t worth arguing. He was as stubborn as he was clever. “All right, well, you take care of yourself, dear. I’ve got to make a phone call.”

Sherlock started to deduce who she could be calling, but his deduction was interrupted by an attack of raucous, painful coughs.

Mrs. Hudson hurried back down the stairs. As soon as she was sure that she was out of earshot, she pulled out her mobile and dialed a number.

_ “Mycroft Holmes, speaking. Who is this?” _

“Hello Mr. Holmes. This is Mrs. Hudson, your brother’s landlady.”

_ “Is Sherlock alright? Has something happened?” _

“I think I’ll leave that for you to decide.”

  
  


Sherlock groaned as he pulled the car door shut. “Is this really necessary? I have a slight cough!” His voice was raspy.

“Oh, I think that if Mrs. Hudson was concerned enough to involve me, it is more than just a ‘slight cough’, brother mine. Going by your voice, you have been coughing frequently and not just recently. This started before you quit smoking. You are thin, even by your standards. Throat too sore to eat anything. And the dark shadows under your eyes suggest lack of sleep. You carry yourself wearily. You don’t normally eat or sleep as much as is healthy for a man of your age and amount of physical activity, yet still staying alert. You have all but given in to fatigue, suggesting that this has continued for far too long a time. Do you have anything to say in your favor?” Mycroft had twisted around in his seat to face Sherlock.

Sherlock turned to face the window, tucking his legs up onto his seat. “Those were easy deductions. Hardly anything to look so smug about.” He grumbled.

They drove in silence, each brother caught up in his own thoughts.

Sherlock couldn’t believe that it had come to this. When had merely finding himself short of breath more often become enough to drag his brother away from his lunch date with the prime minister?

Mycroft was overcome with worry. The chances that this, whatever  _ this _ was, could be fatal were a bit too high for his liking. It shouldn't be possible that his little brother would lose his life, all because of his inability to ask for help. Mycroft shouldn’t have let this happen, he should have known what was going on, he should have intervened sooner before it had gotten so bad. It shouldn’t have taken the landlady to notice that something wasn’t right.

The car pulled up in front of a building. A hospital. The driver got out and opened Sherlock’s door. He leapt out to confront the elder Holmes sibling. “What is this? I thought you were taking me to a special doctor of yours and I could return home in an hour! Not a bloody hospital!”

Mycroft told the driver to wait and started walking, ignoring Sherlock.

Sherlock considered running away, catching a cab once he had lost Mycroft, but knew that he wouldn’t get far in his current state. So instead, he followed. Once inside, Mycroft spoke to the woman at the front desk and she pointed them up a flight of stairs. At the top, Sherlock keeled over, wheezing.

Mycroft’s chest constricted. He hated that his brother would most likely become short of breath after just attempting to land a punch. He hated that he was a factor in encouraging the cigarettes.

“Sherlock,” He said softly. “We’re almost there.”

Sherlock stood up, determined to not appear weak in front of his brother. He walked stiffly, just behind Mycroft, into a large empty hospital ward and immediately sat down on the bed to catch his breath.

Mycroft hesitated at the door. “A nurse should be in here soon. Will you be alright? I have a driver waiting outside.”

Sherlock smiled weakly. “Oh, I do think I can last a few minutes without supervision.”

“Well, if you're sure…” Mycroft lingered a moment longer.

Sherlock waved his hand, motioning for him to leave.

Mycroft turned, walked out, and didn’t look back.

Sherlock leaned back, his eyelids heavy. Perhaps he could steal a minute of sleep…

A knock at the door interrupted his fantasies.

“Come in.” He croaked, sitting upright.

The door opened and in walked a short blond doctor. He had a tan and a walking cane.

“Mr. Holmes?” He smiled and held out his hand.

Sherlock nodded and shook his hand quickly. It was rough and calloused, yet gentle.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Watson.” 


	2. "Sherlock, please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some reading in hopes of keeping this as accurate as possible. If I get anything wrong and you no better, please comment. There isn't that much medical/factual information in this chapter, but just in general.  
> Enjoy!

“Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Watson.”

“Dr. Watson.” Sherlock mused. “Which is it, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

The doctor’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“Tan, but stops at the collar and none above the wrists. You’ve been in the sun, but not vacationing.” Dr. Watson looked bewildered. Sherlock smiled slyly and continued. “You stand straight and formally. Military. Further proven by the psychosomatic limp. Injured in action? How do I know it’s psych-” Sherlock cut off, coughing. He leaned over, trying to find breath, in between coughs.

Dr. Watson knelt down and put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “Mr. Holmes. Do you want me to call you that?”

“Sherlock.” He managed to gasp.

“Alright. Sherlock, then. Take a deep breath, right? Steady, now.”

Sherlock’s coughs began to subside.

“Good, that’s good. Keep breathing. Focus on that, okay? Good.”

Dr. Watson kept his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, even after Sherlock’s breathing returned to normal. They stayed like that, silently, until their breathing matched.

The door swung open again and in walked a female doctor. “Hey, you couple o’ queers.”

Dr. Watson’s head snapped up. He yanked his hands from Sherlock’s shoulders and stood up. “Christ, Sally. Do you even hear yourself? No wonder no one ever requests for you-- you’re rude as hell!” He turned back to Sherlock. “Sorry about Dr. Donovan.” He apologized. “She’s a jerk but a decent doctor.” Dr. Donovan smirked.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked across her. She had been in denial about her own sexuality for years. Teasing others, whether about being gay or elsewise, was how she accomodated for herself. Not only that, but she got off on it. She got off on being mean. They were going to have endless fun.

Dr. Donovan twirled a dark curl around her finger. “So did you get the information, or were you too busy snogging?”

Dr. Watson cleared his throat. “Just doing that now.” He picked up a clipboard and pencil from a table next to the bed. “Sherlock Holmes. Is that your full name? On your birth certificate?”

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched up. He liked the way his name rolled off his tongue. It sounded grand.

He scribbled that down. “Do you or a family member have a history of respiratory illnesses?”

“Not that I am aware of.”

“Have you ever smoked? If so, how often. Regularly, once in your teens, you get it.” He asked it almost casually, like he knew the answer.

There was something about the doctor, a goodness to him. Maybe it was something in those kind blue-grey eyes with the crinkles around them. Maybe it was the creases on his forehead, formed from years of stress and helping people. While it would age most, these features somehow just made him look even more youthful. He looked pure.

That might be why he said, “No, I’ve never smoked.”

Dr. Watson nodded his approval. “Good for you. Do you live with anyone who smokes?”

He continued asking questions and Sherlock kept giving mostly honest answers. He knew he would find out eventually, and most likely soon. He wasn’t even sure why he had lied. Why was he so desperate to please this doctor?

The questions finished and Dr. Donovan stepped forward. “Right, John, it’s my turn now. Say goodbye to your boyfriend.” So his name was John. It was simple, yet old. Antique.

“Sally, er, Dr. Donovan is just going to do some tests. She’ll determine if you need to spend the night. If so, I’ll see you tomorrow. Sally, behave. We were handpicked by Mycroft Holmes, remember.” With that, he turned on his heel and left, taking a bit of Sherlock with him.

“So John said that you might not spend the night, but he’s sugarcoating it. You’ll stay for about a week while we figure out what’s the matter with you, then you’ll probably go about your way for a while. Today, I’ll listen to your breathing and do a chest x-ray. We will go over the results tomorrow.”

“The front desk woman is lesbian.” Sherlock said.

Dr. Donovan’s eyes widened. “What? No, she’s not! How would you know? Why would I care?”

“And single.” He continued. “In fact, I think she finds you rather attractive.”

She placed one hand on his chest and her other on his back. “Take a breath and hold it.”

He inhaled raggedly. His chest ached.

“Out, now.” She was scowling. “You know, Irene, she works afternoons at the front desk, is actually straight. She used to date John.”

His breath caught on the way out.

“That's right, freak. I tease him, but the bloke isn't actually gay. Sorry.” She didn't look sorry.

But that didn't matter. Why would he care? Dr. Watson could date whoever he wished.

Donovan left the room to do the x-ray. She wouldn't show him the pictures. “Later. Maybe with your brother.” She caught his gaze, a newfound sincerity in her eyes. “Look, Holmes. I know I might not seem like the greatest person, but I am a doctor and I will do what I can to fix you. Good night.”

With that, she exited the room, leaving Sherlock fearing the worst.

Sherlock was just about to go into his Mind Palace, when his phone screen lit up.

_What did you think of the doctors?_

_-MH_

_At Gale’s house again?_

_-SH_

_The detective inspector invited me for coffee. Answer my question, Sherlock._

_-MH_

  
  


He recalled Dr. Watson's words from earlier:

_Donovan's a jerk, but a decent doctor. -SH_

_Don't say 'jerk’; it makes you sound twelve years old._

_-MH_

_And Watson?_

_-MH_

_Yes, he's fine._

_-SH_

_Good._

_-MH_

_Is that all?_

_-SH_

_Yes, I suppose._

_-MH_

_Can you bring me my violin? It's terribly boring here._

_-SH_

_I'll be in the area tomorrow. Sleep well, brother dear._

_-MH_

_Funny._

_-SH_

_I'm serious._

_-MH_

_Are you ever not?_

_-SH_

Mycroft didn't respond, but Sherlock knew that sleep was futile, so he decided to examine and sort all the new data today had presented him with. And make sense of a the most fascinating piece of the puzzle:

Dr. John Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over the week I'll be a bit more busy so the chapters won't come on a day to day basis. I will keep writing, though.


	3. "I think you may have increased the dosage."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware you don't get results back that fast (or maybe you do, what do I know), but in the name of fiction, I am allowing my facts to be a little inaccurate. In any case, if you spot any errors and you know better than me, please comment! As long as it doesn't screw up the plot too much, I will definitely fix it.  
> I hope you like it!

“You lied.” Dr. Watson was staring at him, arms crossed.

Sherlock yawned. “Yes.” He said flatly.

Dr. Watson sighed. “Sherlock, look, I understand if smoking is a sensitive subject for you, and I need you to know that there will be no judgement on my par-”

“It’s not a sensitive subject!” Sherlock exclaimed. “Yes, I smoke and I lied but you don’t understand! I didn’t lie because I thought you would judge me! When it comes to what others think when they see me, you should know that I don’t give a fu-” Sherlock was cut off suddenly by the aching pain in his chest. He bit down hard on his lip and tried to continue, but Dr. Watson stopped him.

“You’re right, I’m sorry. But can you please be honest with me from now on? I’m trying to help you.”

Sherlock merely glared. “Get a new therapist.” He muttered. “Current one is rubbish.” He was angry at Dr. Watson for treating him like a child, but even more so at himself. He hadn’t lied when he said he usually didn’t care what people thought, but this blond doctor was different. There was something puzzling about him, and Sherlock intended to solve it.

“Going to tell me how you knew that?” Dr. Watson said, glancing up at him, a smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

“You’ve got a psychosomatic limp, of  _ course _ you have a therapist.

“...uh huh. Right, okay. Your brother is on his way.”

“Yes, he’s bringing my violin. You won’t mind, will you? If I play?”

“What? No, of course not. But, ah, that’s not why he’s coming. We’ve got to tell you what we saw in the X-ray.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply. “Is it operable?” He asked in a low, strangled voice.

Dr. Watson shifted his weight uncomfortably. “I really think we should wait for-”

Sherlock leapt out of the bed and stared down at the doctor. Their faces were just over three centimeters apart. Dr. Watson smelled fresh. Mint, hospital disinfectant, something else that Sherlock couldn’t put his finger on.

As if on cue, the door swung open and Dr. Donovan walked swiftly in. “Mr. Holmes is-- Ooh, what’s going on in here? John, you should know that this is hardly appropriate doctor/patient behavior.” She grinned cheekily. There was a lightness in her eyes and she carried herself taller than usual.

To Sherlock’s surprise, Dr. Watson turned bright red. “No, we, er, no, that’s not what-”

Sherlock relieved John of the humiliation by taking a step back and commenting to Dr. Donovan, “I was right, was I not?”

Her eyes flicked over to Dr. Watson nervously. “Heh, right about what?” She said through clenched teeth.

“You finally asked the desk lady out. And I was correct in my deduction that she has been falling for you all this time. Your first date is Friday-- no, Saturday morning at Speedy’s Cafe. That is the cafe just below my flat.”

Dr. Donovan stared open mouthed. “How-

Dr. Watson whirled around at her. “You and Irene? Really?” He asked incredulously. “That is, wow, okay! Sally, that’s great!”

Dr. Donovan looked back and forth between them. Her hands were in fists. “Shut up both of you, just shut up. Mycroft Holmes has arrived, he’s on his way up, that’s all I came to say.” She stumbled out the way she came.

Dr. Watson, his eyes still wide with the new information, scratched the back of his head. “Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t have said that. Probably not the kindest thing to do.”

Sherlock’s expression turned puzzled. “Why not? It’s the truth.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s kind.”

A heavy silence fell around them. Dr. Donovan had provided a momentary escape from the weight of the news Dr. Watson was about to share.

The door opened once more and in came Mycroft, his left hand gripping the umbrella. In his other hand was the case of Sherlock’s violin. Wordlessly, he handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock opened the case and ran his fingers over the smooth, glossy wood. As he did so, a knot in his stomach unclenched and a sense of relief washed over him. He itched to wrap his fingers around the bow, to press the violin to his chin. Instead, he restrained himself, closed the case, and looked back at the doctor.

Mycroft exhaled, slowly. “I have deduced the majority of the information.” He said in a controlled, emotionless voice. “Would care fill in the specifics, doctor?”

Dr. Watson’s face smoothed over, nearly matching Mycroft’s. It was practiced, Sherlock could see. He had grown used to disguising his emotions when delivering difficult news. Sherlock felt his own face becoming expressionless. It was Dr. Watson’s job to tell them, but Sherlock’s job to not react. No surprise, anguish, or distress would crack the mask he had made for himself. If someone were to walk in now and take a look at their faces, they would think that the lot of them were robots.

“Sherlock Holmes, I regret to inform you that we have diagnosed you with Small Cell Lung Cancer, the primary cause being frequent smoking. As you may already know, this type of cancer is inoperable, with no cure. It is still in the Limited Stage, meaning the tumor has not spread to other organs in the body. With treatment, I would estimate that you have just under two years left. Treatment includes radiation and chemotherapy. I am so very sorry.” He took a step towards the door. “I’ll give you a moment. I will be in the next room if you need me.” He left the room.

_ Two years. _

_ Under two years. _

Sherlock suddenly felt very dizzy. He sat down on the bed, ignoring Mycroft. Mycroft was speaking but his words weren’t registering. Sherlock had never cared much for living, throwing himself in the path of death on a near daily basis. He had never wanted a spouse or children or any other of the simple pleasantries that came with a life of domesticity. In fact, Sherlock didn’t have any plans for the future at all, figuring that he could very likely get shot on a case on any given day. But now that death was almost inevitable, Sherlock felt dread creeping up his spine. Though life didn’t have much value, he did not want to die. Two years was such a short amount of time, when put into perspective with the 34 years that he had already lived.

Sherlock looked up at Mycroft. Mycroft had stopped speaking and was now staring down at his younger brother in concern.

“You can leave now.” Sherlock said, a bit brokenly. “I wouldn’t want to keep the British government idle for too long.”

“I asked for today off.” Mycroft’s voice was an octave higher than its usual tone.

“Then go to Lestrade. Just… go? Please.” Sherlock’s voice cracked. He looked up at Mycroft with wide, pleading eyes. He needed to be alone. He needed to think. He needed to breathe.

Mycroft nodded sharply. “Call me, brother mine.”

When Sherlock spoke again, it came out as a whisper. His vision was swimming and he was suffocating and he was shaking and his chest hurt. His chest ached so painfully, it felt like it might just burst.

Sherlock picked up his violin, placed it on his shoulder, and rested his chin on the small pad. The bow became an extension of his arm and he played. He played restless, longing notes that screamed wept with the injustice that Sherlock had been dealt in his all-too-short life. His arm began to tire and the strings left red indents on his fingers, yet he kept playing. He poured out everything he had until he was exhausted and empty.

Then, he slept. It was the most peaceful sleep he had had in over a month and greatly needed. He slept through the rest of the day and into the night.

When he woke again, he cried. It wasn’t exactly crying, per se. But silent tears were snaking their way down his cheeks as the reality began to sink it.

If only Sherlock had known that this was the price he would have to pay for curing his boredom and easing his nerves.

If only he had known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've been really inconsistent with updating, but bear with me, please. Expect another chapter by next Monday. If there isn't one by then, I'm very sorry. I'll try to assume a steadier updating schedule from now on. Thanks for reading!  
> Heads up, next chapter is less Johnlock, more Mystrade. If you don't ship it, you can just skim it, seeing as there won't be many major plot points.

**Author's Note:**

> Yay! You read my the first chapter of my fic! There are chapters more coming (probably). I have three other fics that still need updating but this one is the one currently at the front of my mind and I really want to get around to finishing it. If I have time, the next chapter will be posted by, if not before, next week.  
> Kudos and maybe even a nice little comment would make my day!


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